Blood & Roses
by Willow Jane
Summary: The untold tragic love story of the dragon prince and his wolf maiden. *Contains sexual materials, minor violence, and adult language. Hence, the rating.*
1. Author's Note

Hi! If you're reading this, I'm sure you don't want to bother with an author's note and wish to continue onto the story, but hold on there! I have some things to gab about for a quick second.

Firstly, I have COMPLETED this fan fiction, meaning it's all edited and saved on my trusty computer, awaiting your eager eyes.

That being said, it is a SHORT STORY, not even more than 10 chapters, most likely. It also contains steamy chapters, no warnings are to be given before said chapters. _This_ is your only warning.

Thirdly, I normally don't post author notes in my chapters-totally throws off your reading mojo. So, REVIEW AND SHOW ME LOVE BECAUSE I'M DESPERATE FOR ATTENTION! And I want to know what you guys truly think. Seriously, nit-pick or tell me I'm awesome, I prefer either. :) I will, however, insert some song suggestions and videos where I drew inspiration from for this story.

And for the finale:

DISCLAIMER! I am still reading the books. I am mostly going off of what I've devoured with hours of researching and participating in forums with fans across the world. I AM OBLIVIOUS TO THE SMALLEST OF DETAILS. If something happened in the books/show that is not in the story, it was done _deliberately._ (You'll notice I don't mention Jaime Lannister at the Tourney at Harrenhal-deliberately cut out, sorry guys. Wasn't pertinent to my characters.)

I love every single one you, flaws and all. Please review and/or favorite . . . yeah?

NO SILENT READERS ALLOWED! Just kidding, you're welcome to read, but at least pop in and say whether I suck or not. :)

HAPPY READING! Stay weird, folks.

Willow Jane


	2. One

They don't understand. They . . . they'll never understand. I love him, I swear I love him.

But this . . . it's all too much. Too much for me to handle alone.

A cry pierces the air, but it's not mine . . . not mine . . . The bittersweet scent of rust and salt fills my nose, flooding my senses.

_Pain. _It's surrounding me, suffocating the life out of me. There's no escaping it.

There's no hope. Not any more.

Maybe, just maybe, there never was . . .

Distantly, I hear the sound of a door opening and the smell of roses fills the air.

. . . }{ . . .

_Two Years Earlier_

_281 a.c._

I rush out of my tent, grinning brighter than the sun setting in the land beyond my reach. After quickly taking in the sight of all the knights and squires and tourney handlers hustling about the grounds, I round the tent and quickly get lost in the buzzing activity. My eyes absorb as much detail as possible, eager to tell Nan a couple stories of my own.

A sound drifts to my ear, scuffling and painful grunts from behind another tent. Frowning, I step towards the tent, listening as voices reach my ear, insults filling the air. I round the tent and take in the horrible scene—three boys, none past their fifteenth name day, surround a small, young man, kicking his stomach and pounding their fist against his back.

I move to aid the poor man, but my eye catches a bundle of wooden tourney swords resting against the tent. I grab for the largest one and lunge for the young terrors. "That's my father's man you're kicking!" I roar, swinging the sword and catching the nearest boy in the back of the neck. He wails, clutching his welt and backing away, his friends following suit. They all wear the sigil of their houses, or the ones they are squires to, but I'm too preoccupied giving them a good beating to recognize each individual sigil.

I swing the sword again, aiming for the second boy, but the lot of them scatter and I drop the wooden weapon, rubbing my sore arm—while wooden, the sword had a lot of weight to it. I approach the man, who stands and gives me a dull stare.

"Are you all right?"

He nods silently. "They didn't hurt me much, milady."

I laugh. "I'm no lady, good Ser."

He shakes his head grimly. "And I'm no knight, milady."

I sigh. "I guess we all have our flaws." I notice a few cuts and visible bruises on his face and exposed arms. "Come with me; my brothers will hear of this injustice."

The young man's lips thin and his brow furrows. "I—"

"I will drag you to the tent if you refuse, _Ser_."

"My name is Howland Reed," he grits out.

I smile. "Pleased to meet you, though the circumstances are rather horrid. My name is—"

"I know who you are, Lady Stark," he interrupts. Realizing his mistake, he quickly continues, "They call you the she-wolf."

I laugh again. "Yes, I suppose they do. Come with me back to my lair and we shall see what we can do about those wounds."

He takes my outstretched hand and I guide him back to my tent. I push him onto an open chair and quickly clean his cuts, binding them in spare linen. I'm asking him about how he happened upon the boys when the flap of my tent is pulled open and three boys step inside. One, the oldest of them and quite the bigger build than the other two, looks at me, nursing a boy's hand, shaking his head as though I'm a child caught doing something naughty.

"Well, look at what the little wolf dragged in," Brandon Stark chuckles. "Who is your friend, dear sister?"

"His name is Howland Reed." I introduce him to my brothers, but it's Ned who catches his attention, silently brooding in the corner behind Benjen and Bran. "He is accompanying us to tonight's feast."

Howland drags his eyes from my brothers and watches me carefully. "I am not expected to—"

"Oh, hush. You will sit with my brothers and I. Gods know I need someone to confide in when they set about their torture of conversation." I grin. "Besides, you're a highborn. You _are_ expected at the feast and you _will_ accompany my brothers and I."

"I do not have proper clothing."

"I'll find you suitable garments," Benjen volunteers.

I beam, triumphant. "There, no more excuses. You are coming, and that's the last I'll hear of it."

At the feast in the grand hall of Harrenhal, Howland Reed drinks and eats with the Starks of Winterfell. Of all my brothers, Ned is the one Howland remains close to, both of them whispering words of friendship for most of the night. I have to endure the torture of my two other brothers, who tease and poke at me endlessly.

A single voice calls attention from across the room. It's soft—melodic, even. Our eyes all travel to the front of the hall, where a man dressed in the blood red cloak of the Royal House Targaryen stands beside a musician holding an instrument. My breath catches in my throat—he's _beautiful_, his hair the color of the moon and his form large, rippled with muscle and covered with black armor.

"In honor of our host, I have been asked to share a song," he says, his voice carrying across the hall. His audience responds with polite applause, encouraging him to begin. Once the first sweet words of his lullaby reach my ears, I am completely taken under his spell—my eyes focus solely on him and the way his lips form around the words I cannot comprehend, but somehow _feel_ deep within me. I can't tell you what he sings about—whether the song is about love or some other matter entirely—but what I know, right here and now, is that the tune is soft and sad, like love that was lost or dreams that have failed. I watch as he finishes the final verse and bows his head politely to his adoring crowd, many women touching a handkerchief to their eyes.

I blink, snapping out of my daze and reaching a hand to my own cheek, which is surprisingly wet with tears. I wipe my eyes and try to compose myself before anyone notices that I wept along with the other women, without knowing why.

"I did not think he was _that _awful, sister," Benjen says, his teasing voice breaking through my thoughts. I turn to him, and upon noticing his wide grin and smug eyes, promptly empty my wine glass over his head. His smile is washed away, replaced with shock and anger.

My lips curve upwards in a satisfied smile. Ned chastises me while Brandon holds back his own laughter. I roll my eyes as Ned scolds me, letting them wander back to the front of the room where the singing man, now surrounded by admirers, looks back at me. I take in a surprised gasp as his dark, lilac eyes pierce into mine, as though reading deeper than my outward appearances—as though touching my soul. His face is angular, but soft and inviting, his eyes are strong but kind. I notice a glimmer of amusement pass through his expression, but it is gone as soon as it came.

Ned calls for my attention, and I force my gaze away from the man I now identify as the Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. His stunning features and musical talent are obvious indicators to his person, traits well-known around the realm by young women who fancy him the handsomest knight there ever was.

I mutely listen to Ned scold and emphasize on the importance of honor and dignity while representing the family, which we are during this week-long tourney without father present. My eyes wander past my brother and find a familiar face—one of the pudgy boys who assaulted Howland earlier serves a knight whose banner boasted a pitchfork. Ned must've realize I'm no longer listening to him, for he follows my line of sight and comes upon the boy I'm currently glaring at, murder evident in my eyes.

"Excuse me, dear brother. That squire has an appointment with the end of my sword." I move to stand and march off, but Ned grasps my arm tightly.

"You will do no such thing. Not here, Lya." He forces me to sit back in my chair. "Remember, dignity and honor."

"He shall die with neither, dear brother," I seethe.

Brandon hears the last bit of my proclamation and joins in on staring at the boy. "Is that the little arse who tortured our friend here?"

Howland glances up from his dinner plate, and settles his eyes on the squire for a brief moment before removing them once more, anger seeping into his pupils. "Aye, that's him."

Benjen looks up from his goblet. "I have some decent armor you could borrow, Howland, should you want to defend your honor and teach the little bastards something."

Howland doesn't reply.

"I also have a fine horse. Ask for either and you shall have them."

Howland picks at a piece of bread, his head deep in thought.

I look about the room. "I don't see either of the other two."

"One is serving the twin towers. I think the other is serving an animal of some sort, but I cannot see from this distance," Howland replies softly, having already spotted them when we first entered the hall.

I find House Frey and spot the little monster indeed serving a knight under the banner of the two towers. It's a few minutes before I find the last boy, the one serving the porcupine. I name each of the three houses, "Haigh, Blount, and Frey."

"The way you say it," Benjen comments, "it almost sounds like a death sentence."

"It could be," I smile sweetly.

My brothers laugh—all except Ned, who launches into another speech about how a proper lady should act. When he will realize I am no real lady, I'll never know. After listening to my brother drone on about the smallest of details for several minutes, I politely excuse myself and exit the hall.

As I weave through the crowd, I distantly hear a brother of the Night's Watch attempting to recruit a group of young knights and I can't help but bitterly think the Wall could use three dishonorable squires. I'm at the door, stepping out of the hall and into the night to return to my tent, when a hand catches my wrist. I turn suddenly, fully expecting my brother's dearest friend and my betrothed, Robert Baratheon, to be standing behind me, drunker than every other man in the room.

To my surprise, my hand is being held by a man with a mane of white hair and beautiful lilac eyes. I gasp, instinctively tugging my hand out of his grasp. His thumb and forefinger close around my fingertips before I can completely escape his hold. I watch as he leans over, placing a soft kiss on the back of my hand.

"Will you give me the pleasure of knowing your name, milady?" his hums, his voice like a caress. His lips tickle my skin, moving along my hand as he speaks.

I nearly stumble over my own words before successfully forcing out, "Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, Your Grace."

"Ah," he gasps in recognition. "The wolf maiden."

I nod lamely, unable to say anything intelligent or witty.

"I've heard stories of your beauty," he says, his other hand gently cupping mine. "They did not disappoint."

"Thank you, Your Grace." I don't know why, but I happen to glance over his shoulder and notice the piercing glare of a woman sitting beside the King himself. Her eyes flicker to my hand, held by both of the Prince's. A look of despair draws over Princess Elia's face and I suddenly remember her husband has his lips pressed against my skin. I gently pull my hand from his hold. "Excuse me, Your Grace. I must retire now."

"Of course. Sleep well, my lady."

"Good night, Your Grace." I give him my best curtsy, which Bran teases is a worse sight than a horse juggling a fool's toys. I take a few steps back before quietly turning and quickly leaving the hall.

_The Prince just spoke to me! He kissed my hand! _I shiver in delight and hurry to my tent, grinning at the men standing guard outside. They don't return my smile, as they normally don't. Men of the North are harden by the winter and cold as the snow—they never smile. My handmaiden helps me change and I sink into my bed, dreaming of a male with hair silver as the moonlight and eyes dark as a raven's feather.


	3. Two

It is the second day of the tourney and I have yet to speak with the Prince again. I sit with my two of my brothers and my betrothed, who presses his thigh against mine. While not wholly inappropriate, the gesture is unwelcome and uncomfortable. I know the likes of Robert Baratheon—sleeping his way through an entire village in the matter of a few days. I've received several affirmations about his bastard born at the Vale a few weeks prior—a daughter, I'm told. He knows now that I'm more reluctant of the betrothal now that I've discovered his dirty secret and intends to sway my opinion of him by wooing me and proclaiming his love over and over again. Thus far, he has yet to move me.

It's nearing the end of the jousting and I can't help but feel anxious to leave the stands and flee from my disloyal betrothed. While handsome, Robert is arrogant and stubborn, his anger quick to start and his mannerism brutish. Seven hells, the man challenged Ser Richard Lonmouth in a drinking contest the night of the feast, which Ned has told me he won. I have found many faults in him, but I also find a small part of myself still caring for him as no more than a friend.

As today's event comes to a close, an unfamiliar sigil rises in the arena—a weirdwood tree with a unusually wide and rather startling red smile. His armor was another sight entirely—bits and pieces of real armor practically sewn together over his small frame. He traveled alone, no squire nor men to assist him with his lance. I watch as the knight they introduced as the Knight of the Laughing Tree swiftly unseated three champions—Haigh, Blount, and Frey—in quick procession. Rather glumly, the knights all surrendered their horses and their armor.

I smile discreetly behind my hand; my brothers both chuckle under their breath. The knights all leave the arena and as I walk with my brothers back to our tents, we hear a commotion in the open area. Upon walking toward the sound of raised voices, we find the three knights all ransoming for their armor and their horses, asking the Knight of the Laughing Tree what they might pay him with.

A booming voice from below the helmet replies, "Teach your young squires the necessary virtue of honor."

The three knights stare at the knight for a full minute before turning to their squires and promptly scolding them each in turn. The three boys' faces tinge pink with embarrassment, and I laugh.

I can't resist the utter irony of the situation—the knight was an unintended hero and answered the prayer I sent to the gods for the past two nights, for someone to teach the squires honor. The gods have answered with this Knight of Laughing Trees, and I am thankful that my newest friend had some small revenge, even though he was not the one to deal the blow.

However, I come to realize something odd. Howland is nowhere in sight.

I glance up at the knight, whose eyes fall on me. Familiar, soft green eyes meet mine and I laugh again as the knight rides off. My brothers do not find the situation half as amusing as I do, but I snicker about it nonetheless.

Robert, apparently unnerved by my humor toward anyone beside himself, declares that he will unmask the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Richard Lonmouth is quick to agree with him. Together, they stride off toward their tents to gather their sticks and stones before riding after the knight.

I shake my head, unamused by Robert's act of false heroism.

I part with my brothers to go find Howland before my headstrong betrothed has the chance to unmask him and reveal his identity, thus forcing out what happened the other day, further harming Howland's pride.

I went to the stables, where a majority of the tourney's horses were housed, sigils of their proud owners resting on stall doors. Our own horses are tied near our tent, but nonetheless, I enter the stables and greet each horse. Ever since I was a child, I loved to ride. On the back of a horse, I can go anywhere, with the feel of the earth beneath my hooves and the wind carrying me off into the unknown.

A dark beauty caught my eye, standing in the largest stall, her eyes taking me in curiously. I quietly approach her, admiring her dark coat and darker mane, trimmed to perfection.

"Hello, beautiful," I whisper, reaching out a tender hand and stroking her forehead. "You are a sight for sore eyes, you know."

She neighs in response, leaning closer to me, bumping her muzzle into my chest affectionately.

"She seems to like you, little wolf."

I tense, my body already recognizing the the deep voice that hasn't spoken to me since the first night at the feast. "Well, I like you, too," I say to the mare, kissing her forehead and patting her neck fondly.

"How are you liking the tourney? Are your champions fairing well?" Prince Rhaegar asks, stepping closer toward the stall until he's standing beside me, the horse's eager head the only thing to separate us. She leans into his touch as he runs his fingers through her mane.

"My brother is advancing into tomorrow's championship," I say softly.

"So, the dragon and the wolf will challenge one another."

"It would seem so." I smile. Nearly forgetting my manners, I back away from the horse, casting my eyes down. "I apologize, Your Grace."

"What ever for, little wolf?" he asks, confusion clouding his features.

"In my haste to admire your horse, I did not ask for permission. I did not mean to disrespect you, Your Grace." Internally, I'm laughing at how formally I'm speaking. I rarely speak so docile—my own stubbornness won't allow it.

To my surprise, the Prince laughs. It's a soft, amusingly sweet laugh that settles into my core. "You need not ask for my permission, little wolf. She is rather selfish and begs for attention when I am not near to give it to her. You may visit her whenever it pleases you."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

Before he has a chance to speak again, men file into the stables, reaching for their own horses, all of them armed and covered in metal breastplates. I frown, "What is the meaning of this?"

Prince Rhaegar tears his eyes away from me, glancing at the men. "Father has requested I find the Knight of the Laughing Tree and bring him forth to be unmasked. He fears an enemy may be beneath the helmet."

My eyes widen, my smile dropping. "But he isn't!"

The Prince is startled at my sudden outburst. I steady my thoughts and calm my nerves, saying softly, "I mean to say that the knight is not an enemy of the realm nor of his majesty."

Prince Rhaegar cocks his head, staring at me curiously. "You know him, this knight?"

My body tenses again, but the lie slips off my tongue easy enough, "No, Your Grace."

"How, then, do you know he is not an enemy?"

I'm saved from having to answer by my brother, Benjen, running into the stables and grasping my arm. He quickly bows to Prince Rhaegar. "Excuse me, Your Grace. My brothers and I have need of my sister urgently."

"Nothing terrible, I hope."

Ben shakes his head. "No, Your Grace. Just a matter of our family."

Rhaegar opens the stall, leading his mare out and effortlessly pulling himself over her back, patting her affectionately on the neck as he gathered the reins in his large hands. "You are excused, little wolf. I will see you at the championship tomorrow. We shall see who will win—the wolf," his eyes glint with amusement, "or the dragon."


	4. Three

I cringe as Brandon is unseated, flying off his horse and crashing to the ground. A small part of me is grinning like mad, secretly pleased that my dear oldest brother has finally been dropped on his arse after all the years of teasing me and making my social outings miserable. Another part, admittedly a larger part, fears for his safety, worried he was seriously injured or worse. But, my dear brother rises to his feet, smiling despite his defeat by the hand of the Prince.

And so, the dragon defeated the wolf.

The Prince and my brother share a friendly shake of hands and return to their respective sides. Ned and Howland converse quietly about the match while Benjen is uncharacteristically quiet.

Last night, Ben informed us about the recruiter from the Night's Watch, enlightening us about what the black brother had said at the feast. My brother spoke of interest in taking the black, but while Ned had no opinion on the matter, Brandon insisted that Ben was needed at Winterfell. While it is considered an honor to serve on the Wall, it was also known to be lonely and hard, especially during the long winters. Ben bursted out that, being the youngest brother, he would have no place at Winterfell.

When no one replied, he folded in on himself, now content to battle with his inner monologue rather than to watch a real fight. Brandon walked out of the arena and was replaced with Arthur Dayne. I had heard from Brandon that Ned danced with the Kingsguard's sister, the lovely Ashara Dayne, at the feast a few nights prior. Ben had teased that it was only after Brandon spoke to her first, for Ned has always been a quiet one when in the company of others besides his family.

The match was a swift defeat, Ser Arthur falling from his horse in a matter of minutes. Barristan Selmy, one of the most skilled knights in the realm stepped into the arena and the crowd lifted in applause—their beloved Prince against their favorite knight.

After a few hits and bumps, the audience, including myself, is shocked when Ser Barristan is nearly unhorsed. Prince Rhaegar hands his lance to his squire and removes his helmet to greet Ser Barristan with a wide smile. The knight grasps the Prince's arm in good humor, bellowing over the roar of the crowd, "You have won even more hearts this very day, Your Grace. Chose your queen wisely." The knight gives a soft smile to Princess Elia, who returns the smile with her own shy one.

The herald announces the winner of the championship and hands Prince Rhaegar a beautiful woven crown of blue winter roses. I glance at the Princess, who watches her husband take the crown and sits a little straighter as his horse jogs toward the royal tent.

At the last moment, and without hesitation, the horse passes the tent and for a second, I think it is simply mistaken and will turn around. Yet, the horse carries her Prince down the stands, passing the smiling crowd and stops.

Right in front of . . . me.

The horse dips her head, as though bowing, and Prince Rhaegar's eyes shine brightly down on me. The laurel is placed on my lap, his fingers brushing mine. I feel Robert's fury washing over me as he glares at the Prince for such a bold act. I simply stare at the Prince, who smiles softly at me. "My queen."

"Your Grace," I breathe, too stunned to speak any louder for fear this dream would shatter. Inside my chest, my heart is beating fast, my breathing irregular as eyes of lilac appreciate me. To my right, Benjen nudges my elbow inconspicuously, reminding me of my manners. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"The pleasure is mine, little wolf."

I watch as he guides his horse back to his men, without so much as a glance back to me, where I sit surrounded by people as shocked as myself. Robert glares at the laurel resting on my lap. "The nerve . . ." he grunts, anger rattling his rough voice.

The herald quickly takes the attention away from me, and I send a silent prayer of thanks. When I feel the majority of eyes finally taken away from me, I take the chance to admire the laurel. Large, frozen blue roses make up the majority of the crown, intwined with the small white petals of baby's breath. It's beautiful.

My eyes carry to the royal seating, where several ladies from court watch me curiously. The King himself stares at me, stroking his chin in thought. My cheeks flush and I glance away, meeting a pair of sad black eyes. Her natural olive skin is pale and her face slightly gaunt, but her eyes are alive, passing emotions from one pupil to the next: sadness, anger, disgust, confusion, more anger.

I'm the first to break eye contact, settling my eyes to the laurel on my lap. I dare not put the crown on my head, for that would insult the Princess and stain my family name. I listen as the herald closes today's events, once more congratulating the Prince on his victory.

Once the event is closed and the people in the stands begin to move about, I quickly excuse myself, ignoring the glare of fury coming from Robert, the eyes of curiosity from Ben, and the wave of concern wafting off Ned. Howland watches me go with blank emotion, though I sense an air of curiosity from him as well.

I don't stop to speak with the people who pass me. Those who don't know me or simply don't remember my name ask me, but I swiftly dodge them. Ladies of the court filter out of the royal tent, watching me as I all but run to my family's camp.

Once I'm in the safety of my tent, I finally let my senses overwhelm me. I'm gasping for air, panting at my slight jog and the excitement riddling through my body.

_He chose me_. I clutch the back of a chair, digging my fingernails into the wood to release some of the tension in my body. _He crowned _me _Queen of Love and Beauty over his own wife!_

I stare at the laurel, sitting on the table, staring back at me. I'm alone in my tent—surely I can put it on. No one is here to see, so there is no harm. I reach for it, setting it on my had, crowning myself with the blue roses of winter, my favorite flower in all the North. It's cool and light on my forehead, perfectly encompassing my entire head, as though it was made for me.

_Now, there's a thought_. I chuckle.

The flap of my tent is suddenly thrown open and in storms my betrothed. "Take that bloody thing off your pretty little head, Lyanna, _now_."

"Excuse me, Lord Robert. You are uninvited in a lady's tent." I amend myself, "At least, in _mine."_

"Calm down, the both of you," Ned interjects, smoothing stepping into the tent, followed by my two other brothers. Howland is nowhere in sight. They all take in the sight of me, a silly girl wearing a silly crown. I stare back, my glare even and daring.

"Do you realize what took place? Do you, Lya?" Robert growls.

I hold my ground. "He named me the Queen of Love and Beauty, as is his right as champion."

"Yes, he crowned you over his own bloody wife!" Robert roared. "I swear, if he thinks he can just—"

"He gave me a crown of flowers, not a crown of gold," I retort. "It is just a silly tourney tradition. I don't see the need to fuss."

"It was a slight, to his wife and father, to name you Queen, Lya," Ned says softly. "People will talk."

"As they always do," I snap. I take a breath, removing the crown and setting it on my bed gently. "It's just flowers, brother. Nothing will come of this—people will pass on their whispers for a time until a new piece of gossip emerges. What they saw today will fade away soon enough."

Doubt fills Ned's eyes, but Bran speaks first. "She is right, brother. She acted accordingly and words will fly, but nothing to harm her reputation nor tarnish the name of Stark. Let it be; let her play her childish fantasy."

I throw a pillow at my eldest brother. "I am not childish!"

Bran holds the pillow up, as evidence to my case. "Certainly not, dear sister."

He tosses the pillow back on my bed and leaves the tent, calling Ned and a fuming Robert after him. They follow dutifully, leaving only Ben and myself. My younger brother looks at the laurel on my bed furs before glancing up at me. "Be careful, Lya. While some acts may seem small and insignificant, this one is not."

With that, he left me to my thoughts.

The tourney is over a few days later. We pack up our camp and leave in the early hours of the morning. I watch from my carriage as the land passes by, beautiful and vast. Harrenhal soon fades away and we make camp at the Trident.

I toy with my laurel, making sure the petals never bend and the twining vines are straight. I haven't spoken to the Prince since the jousting. I saw him only once in passing, but he had not noticed me.

I pull the furs to my chin, sliding my body deeper into the warmth of the bed. That night, and many others to follow, the crown of blue winter roses has a sacred spot beside my bed as I sleep.

. . . }{ . . .

_Don't forget to review!_


	5. Four

_282 a.c._

We are playing in the river that runs just south of Winterfell, a little ways into the Wolfswood, when the sudden a sound of hooves pounding the dirt of the Kingsroad comes from the distance. The jingle of armor can be heard crashing through the happy silence of the woods, drowning out our calls of laughter. My eyes fall on the girls who've accompanied me to the river, the four of us who sneaked out of Winterfell's morbid beauty to enjoy the sun and cool water. I put a finger to my lips, silently ordering the girls to remain quiet as the sound of hooves come nearer.

Whoever is riding along the Kingsroad has deviated from the dirt road and is now heading straight for us. I pull the girls close to me, looking at them with stern eyes. "Go back to Winterfell. Tell my father there are strangers on the road."

"Come with us, my lady."

I shake my head, "They will only find us faster if one of us does not stay."

"I will stay, my lady."

"No, Mary, dear. I can handle a few riders. Go now, ride as fast as you can."

"I will not leave you," Mary says in a hard voice. In all the years she has been my handmaiden, she is nearly as stubborn as myself. And there is no moving her now.

I look to the other two girls. "Hurry now."

The girls scramble to one of the two horses we rode to the river. They mount and are galloping off, sending worried glances back at Mary and myself. I force myself to stand tall, Mary following my lead, holding my hand as tightly as I hold hers. I quickly grab the practice sword I had stolen from the armory this morning off the saddle of the remaining horse, holding the hilt firmly, like my brothers taught me.

Seconds later, the riders emerge from the forest, shadows becoming two rough-looking men, both wearing riding helmets and the white cloaks of the infamous Kingsguard. The slow their gait to a walk as they approach, their eyes eagerly appreciating two girls dressed in nothing but undergarments, soaked to the bone and slightly trembling from cold and fear.

I stand my ground, eyeing the strangers warily. "Turn back around and return from whence you came."

"The little wolf has a bark," one of them says, amusement evident in his booming voice. His companion doesn't laugh with him. "We have . . . business to be done here."

I glare at the man. "Then state your business and begone."

"We are looking for a Stark by the name of Lady Lyanna. Perhaps you know of her."

I swallow. "I know of the young lady from Winterfell. You will find her at home, surely."

The knight nodded. "However, we have witnesses attesting that they saw the young lady enter these woods just this morning. Have either of you happened upon her?"

"No, Ser, I cannot say we have."

"We've only just arrived moments before you," Mary adds.

The knight glances at Mary, uninterested. "Enough, little wolf. Which of you is Lady Lyanna? I haven't the patience to play this game."

I say nothing at first. When I open my mouth to speak, Mary steps forward, cutting me off with a tight squeeze of her hand. "I am Lyanna Stark, Ser. What business do you have with me?"

I stare at my handmaiden, surprised at her boldness. She holds herself well, her posture that of a true born lady—Mary has paid more attention to my lessons than I have, that much is obvious. The knight glances between the two of us before settling on Mary. "You're beauty has no comparison to how he speaks of you." It is said as a whisper, a thought spoken aloud—an insult.

"I beg your pardon. How _who_ speaks of me, Ser?"

"Never you mind. Come, we have an hour's ride and I have wasted enough time indulging in your game."

Mary's eyes widen. "Ride?"

"Yes, _ride_. Either you climb on that horse there or I'll pull you onto mine myself. Personally," his grin is disturbing, "I like it when they struggle."

"How _dare _you speak to a lady in such a tone!" I erupt.

"You are no lady, wench," he spits.

"_I _am Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, you insolent bastard. You will not speak to any lady with such a manner." I step forward, pushing a frightened Mary behind me. "You will tell me who sent you and why it is necessary for me to ride to meet him."

"It's a summoning." He shrugs. "Of a sort."

My eyes narrow. "A formal summoning of any sort should be approved by my father, Lord Rickard Stark."

"Consider it an _informal_ summoning, then."

I hadn't noticed, in all my rage, the other man come from behind, latching his hand on Mary's arm, pressing a knife to her throat. She whimpers, closing her eyes and mouthing a prayer to the old gods. I scowl. "Release her."

The outspoken knight is the one to respond. His tone is bored, as though it is a common occurrence, him kidnapping noble ladies. "Come with us and your maid shall live another day."

I glare at the knight, debating shoving my sword so deep into his chest, it sticks out on the other side. My father had shown me where to stab the heart, up under the ribs nice and tight. But I doubt that I could reach the knight in time to end his life and save Mary's. Nor could I reach Mary and pull her away from harm's way before the man cut her throat. Reluctantly, I drop my sword and mount the horse.

"I will ride with you. Now, _release her_."

The knight takes my reins and ties it to his own saddle. He pulls out a length of rope and begins to tie my hands. Mary breaks free from her captor and lunges for me. I try to push away from the knight, but the rope tightens around my wrists and I'm bound to his hip, where the other end of the rope is fastened to his belt. I yank hard, but the rope doesn't give and the man doesn't even move. Mary is taken by the knight once more, a knife back at her throat.

"No!" I cry. "You have me captive. Let her go."

The knight nods to the man, who throws my loyal handmaiden aside, forcing her head to crack against the rocky shore. Mary moans and clutches her head, her eyes unfocused. The knight kicks his horse, spurring it into action as we ride away. I watch in horror as Mary tries to stand, falls, and tries again, reaching out for me.

"She'll live," the knight mumbles.

"You are a dishonorable man," I seethe. "The likes of you _disgust_ me."

"We'll see what you say about me once we reach our destination."

"What is at our destination?"

"Not what, my lady," he chuckles darkly. "_Who_."


	6. Five

The ride was long and awkward, with me being tied to his hip, but the three of us reach a small camp a few miles from the Whiteknife. Dusk settles in the sky, the day welcoming the night as we approach the only tent, a wash-out white material.

The knight, whose name I learned to be Oswell Whent, the brother of the lord who held the tourney last year, unties the rope at his hip and plucks me off the horse. He tugs me toward the tent.

"There is no need for the rope, Ser. I can manage to walk on my own."

He drags me into the tent nonetheless, pushing me back and tying the rope to the supporting tent pole and leaves. I struggle against the rope, but it burns marks into my wrists. The wooden pole digs into my shoulder blades, forcing my arms back and my chest forward. We had jumped from the river so suddenly, that I was unable to dry properly. The undergarment shift stuck to my skin, still damp despite the windy hour ride to this seemingly abandoned tent.

_Why would I be summoned_?My family hasn't offended the crown, nor have we taken arms against them. We have remained the peaceful, faithful Wardens of the North since Aegon the Conquerer.

The way Ser Oswell tied me, I face away from the entry, my eyes taking in the tent's limited treasures. I'm trying to find a weapon, or anything sharp, to saw off the rope with when I hear the tent's flaps open and a dark shadow is cast inside. A shiver of raw fear takes hold of my body as I watch the shadow slowly approach me until it's right behind me. Warmth from a large body washes over me, suffocating me with the smell of sweet spices and clean, wintery air. I'm breathing hard, my heartbeat spiraling out of control. I clamp down on my fear and take on the Stark's legendary demeanor—cold and strong.

"Is this how you treat all your guests?" I snap.

Large hands fall on my shoulders, fingers brushing against my collarbone delicately, as though I'm fragile as glass, easily broken. However, they are greatly mistaken—I am a Stark of Winterfell, I do not break easily.

I shrug off the warm hands. "I demand to be released and returned to Winterfell. This is unjust cause and I will see to it that punishment will be swiftly dealt."

A chuckle fills the room. "Your unabated courage is the reason I named you my queen of love and beauty."

I gasp, my facade deteriorating at the sound of a voice I haven't heard in nearly a year. "Y-Your Grace?"

The shadow steps around so I may see his face in the candlelight. Prince Rhaegar stares at me, amusement filling his features. "We meet again, little wolf."

I frown at the man, trying to piece together everything that has happened up until this point in time. "Why are you here? What right do you have to _kidnap_ me?"

"Every right, for I am the Crown Prince, if you recall." His smile is small. "I have need of you, little wolf."

"You could have called on my father and requested him like a gentleman."

"For my reasons, he would not allow it."

I freeze. "And, pray tell, what reasons do you speak of?"

His smile fades. "In due time, my little wolf."

He steps closer to me. I cringe and try to move away, but I'm bound to the pole tightly. He raises a single eyebrow and reaches around me, hands gliding against my waist, to untie the rope from the pole. He doesn't move away after, his eyes resting on my lips. I shiver at the hungry look in his dark pupils, but it disappears when he glances down at my inappropriate attire. He steps away and reaches into a trunk, pulling out a riding cape and wrapping it around me.

"I'm told you love to ride," he supplies.

"When I'm not being drag along by a Kingsguard, yes."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Come then. It is time we leave."

My eyes widen. "Leave? I must return to Winterfell."

Prince Rhaegar gravely shakes his head. "I'm afraid that is not possible, little wolf. I have need of you."

"Yes, you've said that before. What is this all about?" I ask as he guides me outside, where a horse is waiting, saddled and armed with various daggers.

"I shall explain as we ride. Time is of the essence, we must go now."

"No!" I dig my heels into the dirt. "You will take me home, _now_."

His smile is wryly. "You command your Prince now?"

All sense of formality and manners have been lost on me until now. I spoke inappropriately to the heir to the realm, but in all honest, I do not care in the slightest. Biting back my unladylike manner, I spit out, "I ask that you please return me to Winterfell, Your Grace."

"Much better, but the answer is the same, little wolf—_no_. Come now."

He pulls me to the horse, mounting it first before pulling me on the saddle in front of him with the help of a squire. I normally ride astride my horse, and with the horn digging into my hip quite uncomfortably, I decidedly swing my right leg over the saddle, my back facing the Prince.

His hands cage around me, pulling me close against his chest, as he grabs the reins. He kicks the horse into action and we ride off into the night, the two knights falling in behind us. The wind rushes around us as the horse powers down the dirt road.

"This won't last long, little wolf," he says in my ear, his hot breath tickling my neck. I have the urge to tell him it was quite all right, I like the feel of the wind running through my hair, but I think better of it. I need answers, and I need them _now._

_"_Why did you take me?" I ask, the wind carrying my words to the Prince.

"Soon," he replies. His cheek rests against my head, his body curving around me as we ride. My fingers clutch the horn of the saddle so as not to be tempted to run over his muscled forearm or twine with his. His warmth engulfs me, trapping me in a ball of heat that could only belong to the dragon himself.

. . .

After a few hours, the horse finally slows to a walk. The pair of knights are within sight, but keep their distance, as though giving us privacy. My stomach rolls at the thought—in disgust or pleasure, I'm not entirely sure.

"I'll have those answers now," I say.

Prince Rhaegar doesn't answer for a moment. I'm about to demand for answers once more, but he finally speaks. "Do you know of any prophecies?"

My mouth drops. "_Prophecies_?" I ask, incredulous. "Like in the songs?"

"Yes, little wolf, much like the songs."

"And what of these prophecies, Your Grace? Do you plan to tell me bedtime story?"

I'm being rude, and I know it, but I cannot help to feel mad—mad that he will not be forthright and tell me the purpose of taking me.

"Perhaps, little wolf," he says. His mouth is at my ear, "Only if you behave."

My heart skips at the sound of his words, but my duty to my family overrides any childish fantasy. "I must go home, Your Grace. My father and brothers will be worried."

"Yes, they will worry." Prince Rhaegar shifts, pressing closer to my back, pulling me tighter against him. "Do not fear me, little wolf. I will keep you safe."

His mouth presses against my hair, kissing the crown of my head for a long moment. "Rest, now, little wolf. We have a long journey ahead of us."

. . .

A fortnight has passed since the night Prince Rhaegar took me from the North. We ride from sunset to sunrise, traveling at night and camping miles off the Kingsroad to avoid other travelers. I'm kept in my own tent while the Prince and his two men sleep outside, one of the three always on constant guard, dampening my chances of escape.

I actually tried to escape . . . four-and-a-half times. The night after I was taken, I attempted to sneak out of the tent and run into the neighboring forest, intending on finding assistance in a town that was surely nearby. However, Ser Oswell was quick to catch me before I made the tree-line. The second time I tried to escape was the second night. Ser Oswell's Kingsguard brother knocked me on the side of the head as I sprinted for the thin line of smoke emerging from a nearby village. My head ached for several days, but I had the satisfaction of overhearing the Prince scolding the knight like a child.

The third attempt was nearly successful—I managed to wait until Ser Oswell fell asleep at his post before creeping toward the horses and launching my body over it's back before it neighed in protest, waking Ser Oswell and the other two men. The horse refused to obey me, throwing me off her back. My bottom was sore for a week.

The fourth was less successful—Ser Oswell was smarter this time. When I heard his snoring, I made for Kingsroad, where the sound of travelers singing a terrifying song about the Others drifted from. Ser Oswell leapt from his perch and tackled me, evidently only pretending to be sleep in order to capture me.

I say there was only a half-attempt to escape, because when I did decide to escape only a few days ago, Prince Rhaegar swiftly put an end to my plan before it was even put into motion. I was prepared to steal a sword from the saddle of a horse, use it on Ser Orwell and his brother before turning it on the Prince, if need be. I practiced that night with a short stick I had found outside my tent, moving and thrusting the way my brothers had taught me. When I felt ready to do what had to be done, the flap of the tent opened, and the Prince stepped inside. He stared at me for a moment before threatening me with the voice of calm and reason, "If you attempt to leave, I will tie you to the end of me horse and drag you behind me." He watched as my eyes hardened at the challenge. Then, his voice dropped lower, deeper, as he said, "And you will be naked, little wolf."

Tempting as it was to challenge His Grace, I could only imagine how miserably I would fail and how promising his words and tone of voice was. Needless to say, I dropped my stick and sulked on my cot for the rest of the day until riding out at twilight.

The tent is big enough for one cot, and nothing else. No handmaiden is brought forth to assist me, and I still wear my shift from near two weeks ago. I am uncomfortable and tired, with dirt staining my cheeks and my inappropriate dress. This early morning, I fall asleep on the surprisingly soft, comfortable cot only to be woken a few hours later by the Prince himself. "We are nearly there, little wolf. Just a day's ride."

I rub my eyes, grimacing at His Grace. "When are you going to tell me where we are headed?"

"You will find out soon enough."

He helps me onto the saddle, but I find it difficult to stay awake. My body is forcing sleep upon me, and as I close my eyes, I feel his hand press against my stomach, holding me against his chest. My head falls back to his shoulder and I fade away into darkness.


	7. Six

I wake slowly, my head shifting on my makeshift pillow to find a more comfortable position. My nose presses into tender flesh, warm and inviting. My eyes flutter open. I'm nestled against the Prince's chest, my face buried into the crook of his neck. I sit up suddenly, my cheeks flushing in embarrassment. "I sincerely apologize, Your Grace. I . . ." I fail to find the right words. I simply give up and take in our surroundings. Red mountains are closed in on us on every side, tall and forbidding, but majestic nonetheless.

"Are we . . ." I hesitate. "Are we in _Dorne_?"

"Just north of Kingsgrave," he affirms.

I have heard stories of the Red Mountains of Dorne from Nan, but they were much more than mere words could describe. I have seen my fair share of mountains, but none were this terrifyingly beautiful.

"Why are we in Dorne?" My voice rises as my frustration increases, "Why have you brought me here?"

"Patience, little wolf."

I am _done _with being patient. I have been taken from my home without so much as a logical reason besides the fact that he is the Crown Prince and I cannot, as his loyal subject, reject his will.

"Stop the horse," I demand.

He doesn't even pull on the reins. "Are you unwell?"

"Please," I spit through gritted teeth. "Stop—the—_horse_."

When he still doesn't move to stop the horse, I take the matter in my own hands—literally. I grab the reins, brushing against his hands as I gently pull the horse to a stop. I take a deep breath and push against the Prince, slipping off the horse. My feet hit the ground, a pulsing ache spreading through my soles where I land on sharp rocks.

I continue down the beaten path, walking briskly. I start to mutter unintelligible things, too frustrated to complete a coherent sentence. "Bloody hell . . . thinks he can just _kidnap_ me . . . Brandon will _not_ . . . Father's going to see me murdered . . . so worried by now."

He rides beside me, keeping pace with my smaller strides. "Get back on the horse, little wolf."

"That is quite enough!" I shout, surprising myself but clearly not surprising the Prince. I spin around to face him and his mouth is set in an amused smirk, which only makes me angrier. "I am _not _a little wolf. Have you any idea what you've _done_?" My voice pitches near the end of the sentence. "What gives you the right to take a lady of a noble house from her home and spirit her away to _Dorne_, a kingdom on the _complete_ opposite side of the realm? I have no care that you are the bloody Prince—you still have no right to treat me as you have thus far. I _demand _you tell me _exactly_ where we are going."

Prince Rhaegar dismounts the horse and I'm suddenly struck by how truly intimidating he really is, dressed in his black armor and red cloak of his house. He stands a head taller than me, casting a rather large shadow over me. He stands before me, with only a small sliver of space between our chests. His finger catches a rogue lock of my black hair and tucks it behind my ear, his thumb skimming my jaw. He glances over my head, a smile brightening his sharp features. "We are here, little wolf."

I frown, turning to follow his line of sight until I see it—a tower, standing tall on the edge of a red mountain in the near distance. It was round with remaining stone ruins of its former glory scattered around it.

"Where is 'here?'" I ask impatiently.

"I've yet to name it, in truth." He smiles down on me. "Perhaps you can help me find it a name."

I don't respond to that. Instead, I ask, "This is our final destination?"

The Prince nods once. "Come. You shall be treated as the lady you are, little wolf."

The silent promise of a hot bath and decent meal calls to me more than my absurd need to be difficult. I willingly mount the horse and we ride for another hour or so before we arrive at the base of the tower. Prince Rhaegar dismounts and offers a hand to me, which I ignore, removing myself from the horse with little help from him. My foot catches on the stirrup, though, and I fall backward. Large hands circle my shoulders and hold me tightly as I manage to free my foot. I barely glance backward, quietly thanking him in so little words.

He opens the tower door and pulls me inside. It isn't very spectacular—a staircase hugs close to the wall, spiraling upward. The room is small, an apparent study doubling as a dining area, with a wide table-desk and several chairs taking up the majority of the space. A fireplace was snug in the corner of the room. The Prince took my hand and guided me up the stairs. At the top is a larger room that is sparsely furnished, save a wide bed and wardrobe.

"I shall send for some water for you to bathe," Prince Rhaegar says. "In the wardrobe are some outfits suitable for you. I hope you feel comfortable here."

I snort, but don't respond. He gives me one last amused look and descends the stairs. He returns within minutes with warm water and a cloth, then leaves without another word. The door closes softly behind him and I am left with my own thoughts.

I glance at the dish full of water and the clean cloth. I am absolutely filthy—if any of my ladies saw me now, they would have a fit. The thought makes me smile as I take the cloth and wet it. I wash my face first. I remove the disgusting shift and toss it to the floor, washing the rest of my body thoroughly. I open the wardrobe and take out the two dresses. One is too small for my own slender frame; the other is still small, but will fit if I leave the corset very loosely tied. I slip into the dress without a shift for undergarments. I comb through my hair with my fingers. While the dress is a little too tight, I feel better than I have in two weeks.

The door opens after a swift knock. The Prince steps into the room, his eyes finding me in the corner near the wardrobe. He closes the door behind him softly, examining me as he approaches. "You are beautiful," he breathes, his eyes lingering at my chest, which is practically spilling over the corset of the dress. I have the urge to cower and shield myself, but my pride steps in the way, forcing me to stand tall and meet his eyes with all the dignity I can muster.

"It is high time you answer my questions, Your Grace," I say as strongly as I can. "What 'need' do you have of me?"

"My little wolf, you still do not understand." His smile is small, but indeed wolfish. "The only need I have is _you_."

"I do not—" My words die on my tongue. My eyes widen, but that is the only obvious indication that I finally understand his meaning. "Your Grace, you cannot think—"

"I can, actually." His smile widens. "I _need_ you, Lyanna."

My breathing becomes heavier. _That's the first time he's said my name_. The strangest thing about that is the way my body reacts—skin tingling from head to foot, stomach tightening just behind my navel, heart clenching.

I am confused by my body's functions—I don't know whether to sigh or get angry, so I naturally choose the latter. The words are off of my tongue before I could stop them. "You cannot haveme, Your Grace."

His eyes darken in response. "Is that a challenge, young maiden?"

Against my better judgement, I step back as he advances toward me. My back hits the wall and I'm suddenly trapped in the corner of the room. His hands cage me in, planted on either side of me. His face inches closer, but I shrink away. Grasping at the air for words of bravery, I blurt, "I have a betrothed, Your Grace. This is most improper."

"Tell the truth now, little wolf: Did you truly believe you would have been happy with him, Lord Robert Baratheon?"

"Y-yes," I stumble over the lie.

"You believe he would have been faithful to you?"

He speaks in past tense, as though the thought of marrying Robert is no longer a possibility—and as the moments pass, I am starting to believe that might be true.

"The way you are being faithful to your wife, dragging me here and forcing yourself upon me?" I retort.

"There will be no forcing, little wolf." His smile is confident. "My wife understands and accepts this . . . arrangement."

I stare at him in horror. "_Arrangement_?" My hands push against his chest. "What arrangement, Your Grace?"

I'm useless at trying to push him away—my arms give beneath his muscle, bending as he closes the space between us. "That's enough talking for now, little wolf." His lips brush against mine and I shiver. "I want to taste you."

His mouth covers mine and I'm stunned into a stony stance. As his lips move against my own, I slowly start to thaw, my fingers curling around the tunic he wore, pulling him tighter against me. My lower body lifts off the wall to press against him, deepening the kiss with skill that I've just discovered. His response is quick, passion filling every kiss.

When his tongue slides past my lips, I feel my senses return to me with a sharp _snap_! My teeth clamp down, closing my mouth and catching his bottom lip. He pulls away, his hand rising to his mouth and coming away with a dot of blood on his fingertips. He looks at me, his smile lascivious and dangerous. "So, the little wolf does bite."

I turn my head when he leans in again, but that doesn't make him even pause. His lips go to my neck, trailing kisses down my throat and across my collarbone. I push his chest once more, but to no avail.

"Your . . . wife," I pant. "This isn't . . . No, this cannot happen . . . _Please_, Your Grace."

His teeth graze the meat of my shoulder, sucking the loose skin and releasing, the process proceeding up my neck.

"St-stop," I gasp. His arms circled my waist, holding me against him. I clench my teeth together to stop the moan from escaping my lips. I gather all the strength I could and force it through my hands, shoving him a few steps away.

"Enough," I pant, sagging against the wall. "This cannot happen."

"It will, soon enough," is his answer. His thumb brushes his bruised bottom lip, his eyes lingering on my sore neck, a smug smile settling on his face. He exits the room, bidding me good night before slamming the door closed behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my confused emotions.


	8. Seven

I don't remember going to bed and falling asleep, but I wake to the smell of food. My stomach growls and I sit up, eager to find the source of the delicious aroma. The door is open, though I distinctly remember it being closed the night before. I cautiously make my way down the stairs, unsure of what I will find at the bottom.

The table that moonlighted as a desk was set with a miniature feast, with roasted boar, a variety of cheeses, and sliced bread. At the head of the table, reading from a worn leather-bound book, is the Crown Prince of Westeros. His silver curtain of hair falls past his shoulders, spilling over onto his plate. With one quick hand, he sweeps the locks back, tucking strands behind his ears, without glancing up from his readings.

After watching him for a few moments, I make my presence known, stepping into the room with a purpose. His eyes pull away from his book to watch me enter. I move to sit at the opposite end of the table, but he stops me. He stands silently and pulls out the chair to his left. I have half the nerve to sit where I intended, just to frustrate him, but I recognize the formal gesture—by seating me on his left, he is intentionally recognizing me as his second, his _equal_. Normally, a honorary guest would sit on the right of the King, his Queen to his left.

Recognizing this protocol from years of etiquette lessons, I find it easier to defy him, sitting at the opposite end of the table. His eyes narrow, but I smile as innocently as possible. "Good morning, Your Grace."

"Good morning, little wolf."

I ignore his tone—slightly annoyed and tinged with a warning—and grab a piece of bread with a slice of cheese. "How long am I going to be staying here?"

"Does my company already bore you, little wolf? Perhaps I could call for Ser Oswell to keep you entertained."

I make a face. "No, thank you."

He smiles his secretive smile. "I hope you slept peacefully."

"As peacefully as any captive could under the circumstances, yes." It doesn't go unnoticed that he doesn't answer my question about the duration of my stay. I finish my bread and cheese, but I'm still starving. I grab for a piece of meat, cutting into it as slowly as my eagerness would allow, chewing delicately like I was taught.

Unfortunately for me, I've never been keen on learning the proper ways a lady should conduct herself in front of other highborns. At the time, I was more concerned with learning archery and swordplay with my brothers. I probably look like a savage, cutting my meat and shoving pieces into my mouth.

I finish the last of my breakfast, washing it down with a goblet of wine. "What are your plans for me?"

His eyebrows rise, amused. "I have many plans for you, little wolf."

I shiver, but decide not to cower behind politeness and proper words a lady should say. Instead, I cut to the viciousness and crudeness of wolf from the North. "Stop teasing me, Your Grace. While you may be the Crown Prince, you are not above the law. Abduction and . . ._ rape_ are against the laws of the land. I ask you to return me to my home immediately." I stumble over the _r_-word, but manage to keep my tone as sharp as my father's whenever he's condemning a man to death for abandoning the Wall.

Prince Rhaegar's eyes light up with amusement. "I've told you, little wolf, there will be no forcing, you needn't worry about that."

"What _should_ I be worried about, then, Your Grace?" I reply coldly.

His smile is once more secretive, and wolfish, at the same time. "Nothing, little wolf. Absolutely nothing."

I stand from the table. Through my teeth, I grind out, "Please excuse me, Your Grace."

I don't bother waiting for his reply. I storm out of the bloody tower and stride my way down the beaten path we followed the day before. Within seconds, Prince Rhaegar is suddenly by my side, walking eerily silently despite his chain-mail-covered chest.

"Where are you going, little wolf?"

"I need some fresh air," I grunt.

"Shall we go for a ride?" he suggest, his tone still amused.

I stop suddenly. "Excellent idea, Your Grace." I start my way back to the tower. I grab the reins of a random horse already saddled and tied to the pillar outside the tower and gently lead her back to the path. I'm about to mount the horse, my foot already in the stirrup and my leg practically in midair swinging over the saddle, when a pair of hands catch my waist and pull me back to the ground. I stumble backward and glare at the Prince.

"You honestly believe I would allow you to ride your own horse, little wolf?" He shakes his head, smiling. "Foolish little girl."

I shove him away. "I am perfectly capable—"

"Of running off on your own? I have no doubt, little wolf."

I huff in frustration. "This isn't necessary, Your Grace," I mutter as one of his Kingsguard hands him his mare, taking the other horse away. He helps me onto the saddle and I have half the mind to kick the horse into action, but another guard holds the reins, keeping the horse steady as the Prince gracefully mounts behind me. One hand takes the reins from the man while the other rests on my stomach, holding me against him.

One thing is for certain—it is _most _uncomfortable riding without any undergarments on. I shift on the saddle as the horse sets a steady walk, trying to better position myself so as not to chafe. His hand drops from around my waist, instead resting on the top of my thigh. A shrill of nerves tightens in my stomach and my breathing hitches.

"Where would you like to roam?" he asks, polite as ever, but with that stupid hint of amusement leaking into his tone.

"How about North?" I suggest, snarky once more.

He chuckles. "Here," he hands me the reins. "Leads us wherever your heart desires."

I take the reins from him, leading the horse down the beaten path. The Red Mountains pass us at a slow pace, the wind soft and the birds happily singing a morning melody. A strong breeze comes from the east, blowing my long, dark hair with it. Prince Rhaegar tangles a hand through the locks, sweeping my hair over my shoulder to expose my neck. His nose glides along the outline of my shoulder, up my neck, brushing his lips against my ear. I tell my body to move away—_command_ my shoulder to shove him off, but it's no use, my body refuses to comply. His lips are mercilessly against my skin, tasting every inch he could reach. His fingers massage the inner side of my right thigh, inching upward at a steady pace. When they hook around the hem of the dress, my hand latches onto his wrist, all my strength going into pulling his hand away.

"You mustn't, Your Grace," I whisper. I pull my head to the side, out of reach of his lips, ceasing his seemingly endless kisses. I turn my head to glare at him, our eyes meeting—dark lilac against deep brown.

"You are so beautiful," he breathes, crashing his lips against mine. He holds the back of my head with his large hand, keeping me from pulling away as his tongue invades my mouth. The death grip I have around his wrist loosens due to the distraction. I don't notice that his hand has lifted my skirt, gliding against my thigh, until something unfamiliar brushes against a part of me that I've yet to explore.

I gasp, which he takes advantage of, deepening the kiss. His finger pushes into the area of mystery between my legs that I haven't even spoken to my mother about since I first starting bleeding a year or so ago. My breathing comes out in gasps, my fingers reaching up to cup his cheek as his own finger slides in and out of me . . . in and out, steady as the horse's gait. My hand tangles into his long hair, aching to touch him, _feel _him.

He releases my head to take the reins from me, steering the mare back the other way. I break away from him to ask, my breathing coming out in pants, "What are you doing to me?"

His lips capture mine once more. "Making you mine," he answers with a low growl, kicking the horse into a quick jog back to the tower. His finger slips out of me, allowing me to regain my senses as our short ride comes to an end. At the tower, a man takes the horse and Prince Rhaegar dismounts before helping me down gently. He carries me back into the tower, holding me effortlessly as we cross the threshold and go up the stairs. I yelp when he drops me on the bed.

I scramble backward, my back hitting the headboard. I watch him warily. Now that his presence is no longer suffocating me, I can think clearly. "Please, Your Grace," I whisper. "This cannot happen."

"It _will _happen, little wolf." His hands quickly remove his chain mail, fingers unstrapping the belt expertly. With just his tunic and a pair of trousers hugging his body, he almost looks _normal_, rather than like the royalty he is. However, the air about him, how he holds himself, screams nobility and commands respect and obedience.

_I will give him neither._

"I will _not _let this happen." I jump from the bed, rushing toward the open door. But he's suddenly there, grabbing my waist and pulling me back. His other hand slams the door closed, his lips continuing their torture on my neck. I try to fight him off, but he's grabbing each of my wrists, spinning me around and pushing me backwards until I'm pinned against the wall. I push at him with my hips, but too late I realize this is the reaction he wants. His hips pin me back against the wall, rubbing against me. Heated lips trail upward, from my collarbone to my neck just below my ear, across my jaw and end on my mouth.

His kiss pulls me under, forcing a cage of emotion to spring free and a reign of fiery desire to boil in my blood. Mother once told me that there would come a day when a wife would need to please her husband in the bedroom, but only after they were married. I pull away from the kiss with a harsh, breathy, "_No_!"

_This cannot go on_._ This cannot happen. I am a maiden and I am to stay that way until Robert and I say the words before friends and family. I cannot lose my virtue, not even to the Prince._

But his kisses are so tempting and his body feels too perfect against mine. I try to shove him away, but my attempts are weak and halfhearted. I enjoy the feel of his lips covering every inch of my skin, of his hips moving suggestively against my own responding ones. I know—somewhere deep inside of me, I _know _that I would never feel this way about Robert, not when he already had one bastard child.

But how much better am I if I fall pregnant with the Prince's seed? Will I be no different than my betrothed? No, I will not. However, the gods would not be so cruel as to grow a child inside of me to be born a royal bastard. But his wife? Would I inflict the same pain I felt when I found out about Robert's bastard daughter on the future queen of Westeros? That would only make me a liar.

His lips are relentless, his hands sliding around my back to loosen the dress. As the fabric begins to fall away, I cry out again, "No!" I clutch the dress to my chest, holding the Prince at bay with my other hand. "Your wife . . . this isn't right."

"It feels right," he purrs. He covers my hand on his chest with his own. I can feel his heart beating—soft, steady. I hear his breathing, also soft, also steady. His expression is calm, but his eyes are a raging storm of emotions—lust prominent in the deep purple of his irises. "Do not lie to me, little wolf."

"I—I'm not lying, Your Grace." I swallow, attempting to clear my dry throat. "I cannot let this happen. I _will _not stoop to the level of some common whore," I spit out, proud of myself that I could sound so strong while feeling so weak.

His eyes flare. "You are much more than that, Lyanna. So much more." _That's the second time he's said my name_. He cups my face. "You are beautiful . . . so _beautiful_," he says, pulling me into another kiss.

My protests die on my lips, my heart threatening to rip out of my chest. His fingers gently pry my hand away from my dress, letting it fall to the ground and form a pile around my ankles. I gasp as cool air wraps around my body, making my skin taunt and nipples hard.

He broke the kiss to step away and examine my naked body. Immediately, I move to pick up my dress, but he stops me. He pulls me toward the bed and gently pushes me back onto it. I lay on my back, my hair spread around me in different directions like a halo of a raven's feathers. He watches me squirm beneath his heated gaze before swiftly removing his tunic and covering my body with his. His hand reaches between our bodies and I feel his fingers tickle my slick entrance. My back arches as he slips one inside of me, my walls tightening around the foreign intrusion. I don't even realize my hips move in sync with his every thrust.

Another finger enters me, filling me, ripping my very soul to pieces and scatter my wits about the room. My fingers curl around the furs on the bed, squeezing as a coil of nerves tightened just below my navel. As the tension peaked, his fingers slid out, instead going to the lace of his trousers.

As I try once more to protest weakly against this continuing any further, he slips inside of me—all of him, in one agonizingly slow thrust. I cry out, my fingernails digging into his bare shoulders, as he pulls his hips back and thrusts forward once more, connecting our bodies deeper with each pump.

Pain radiates from where he slowly moves inside of me, but it dulls, replaced with a rush of excitement and raw pleasure. My mouth parts and I pant, "Faster."

He's quick to comply, pushing in and out at a steady pace, forcing the pleasure to build and my nerves to bundle up once more, exploding with a loud moan from my lips.

The Prince stills, his body shaking ever-so-slightly as he comes down from the same rush. I'm panting, gasping for air, my skin sticky with sweat and hot to the touch. He falls to the side, still inside of me as he holds me against him.

I stare at him, all my former protest flee as I watch him watch me. The pleasure, the pure ecstasy of it all—how could it be so wrong, yet feel so right? I think of Robert. Perhaps he only wanted to feel the same pleasure and sought it from someone else. But him returning to me after his bastard was born only hurt more—his proclamation of love and devotion burned a bad taste in my mouth. He doesn't love me—he loves the _idea _of me; a pretty girl to have on his arm, a woman to warm his bed.

Then again, the Prince certainly doesn't love me. He has a wife and children still at King's Landing, waiting for him to come home. The thought has me pulling away from him, though he stops me from moving an inch. I can't look into his eyes anymore, if I stare into his lilac orbs, I know I'll fall apart. He's ruined me, taken my maidenhead and the worst of it all was I _wanted _him to. I know I will never regret allowing him to take it from me, but all of me _knows _it was not proper, it should not have happened.

"Your Grace," I start, wetting my dry lips. "I—"

"Rhaegar," he says softly.

I blink, my eyes meeting his in surprise. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace?"

"My name, little wolf." His hand trails down my neck, between my breasts, and hooks around the back of my thigh, pulling it over his hip, spreading my legs wider as he hardens once more inside of me. "You will call me by my name: Rhaegar."

I shake my head, a breath catching in my throat as he sinks inside of me, the nerves returning to hum in pleasure. "I—I cannot," I stutter, unable to focus.

"You will." He rolls me onto my back, holding my legs farther apart by my knees. He plunges deeper inside of me than he had the first time. I cry out. He leans forward, spreading kisses across my chest. Into my ear, he whispers harshly, "Say my name, little wolf."

He pulls out and thrusts inside, hard and fast, forcing another cry from my mouth. The word catches in my throat, but spills from my lips like a desperate oath as he pushes into me, deep and filling. "_Rhaegar_."


	9. Eight

When I wake, the sky is dark. The room is lit by the moon, illuminating every object. I notice the empty bed beside me. I stand, the cool air caressing my body as I search for my dress in the dark. I step on something as smooth as silk. I reach forward and pull the material over my head—the Prince's shirt. It falls just above my knees and is the most comfortable piece of clothing I've worn yet.

I quietly descend the stairs, the room below lit with one or two candles. Prince Rhaegar sits at the table, an opened letter in his hands, his chest bare. He rubs his face tiredly, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. He crumbles the paper in his hands and tosses the makeshift ball into the fireplace in the corner, the soft blaze glowing about the room. He leans his head back against the tall support of the chair, eyes closed and brow lowered in a frown.

Timidly, I approach him. I don't know whether he hears me or not, but when I take hold of his hand, using it to balance myself as I move my leg over his lap, as though mounting a saddled horse, his eyes open in surprise. I straddle his thighs, eyes on his chest. His muscles are well-defined and irresistible, my fingers trail along the curves and ripples on his stomach.

"You should be resting," he says softly.

"So should you, Your Grace," I respond just as quietly. "Who was the letter from?"

He shakes his head dismissively. "Nonsense from my father."

I can practically smell the lie, but I don't press the issue. He is statue-still as my hands explore him, from the contours of his shoulders, down his abdomen, hooking a finger into the belt of his trousers. "When do you plan on returning me to my family?" I ask, holding my breath in anticipation, keeping my eyes on my hands at his waist. _Does he mean to bed me and then leave? Maybe I am a common whore to him._

His finger and thumb gently pinch my chin, pulling my face up to meet his eyes. "Not for a very long time, little wolf."

My stomach tightens. _How long is a long time_? I want to ask him. _Weeks, months, _years?

His lips brush against mine. "I plan to keep you, little wolf. I hope you won't tire of my company," he teases.

"I haven't grown tired of you yet, Your Grace," I tease back.

His hands are on my knees, sliding up my thighs beneath the hem of the tunic. A steady pulse thrums between my legs, aching to be touched by his skilled hands. He must've read my mind because not a moment later, his thumb brushes against the wetness. I cry out softly, and his hand pulls away. Disappointment flutters through me at his slight teasing. His eyes are hooded, watching me squirm at his touch.

"I believe I've already told you once to call me by my name." His finger teases the entrance, rubbing against me but refraining from slipping inside.

"What is my name, little wolf?"

I try to breathe through my nose only, to contain the flare of heat and desire running through my veins. I smile defiantly. "Your Grace."

His thumb presses at the bundle of nerves hidden between my legs. I hiss. He asks once more, "My name?"

A taunting chuckle escapes my lips. "His Royal Highness," I bite my lips against the moan building in the back of my throat, "the Prince of Dragonstone."

He pulls his hand away from me entirely, resting it on my thigh instead. I give him the same smile I used to give Nan when I was misbehaving. I take his hand from my thigh, gently singling out his forefinger, which is shiny and slick. Holding his eyes with mine, I bring his finger to my mouth, sucking it once and tasting my own bittersweet juices. His eyes darken, the hand on my other thigh tightening. My tongue rolls around his fingertip as I slide it out of my mouth and boldly bring it between my legs, pushing his finger inside of me.

"Rhaegar," I say, clear as a bell but softly, as though it is a secret between the two of us.

His reaction is instantaneous—his second finger joins the first inside of me, pumping in and out without my direction. His lips take hold of mine, pulling his name from my mouth once more as his fingers continue their torture.

With one clean sweep of his free arm, he clears the table behind me. Effortlessly, he lifts me, gently laying me back on the table, settling himself between my legs. His head dips forward as he pushes the tunic over my breasts. His kisses trail from my neck, over each breast, and down my stomach before returning upward. He takes my lips as he enters me, filling me with every inch of him. I gasp into his mouth, allowing his tongue to dominate my own. The sound of the table creaking, threatening to break under the pressure of our bodies joining together as one, only makes me moan louder, saying his name like a promise.

"_Rhaegar_ . . . Gods! . . . _Rhaegar!_"

The explosion of pleasure falls to pieces around me as my body spirals downward from the rush. He falls with me, whispering my name like a lullaby, _Lyanna, _and I know I'll never love my name as much as I do when he says it.

He kisses my stomach once more before falling back into the chair. I sit up, the tunic falling down to cover me. His chest is now shiny with a thin layer of sweat, his pants unlaced and exposing him for me to see. While having three brothers, I have never seen what makes them _male. _They spoke crudely about it, giving rude suggestions to those they despised. But now, looking at what lies between a man's legs, I cannot help but think how all of him fits inside of me.

When I realize I'm staring opening at him, I pull my gaze from his manhood, a deep blush staining my cheeks. He's watching me watch him, his eyes still hooded, but a fiery purple. His hand reaches out to finger the hem of his tunic still draped over my body. His fingertips tickle my thigh. "I like you better in my clothes," he says quietly.

"It is admittedly more comfortable," I whisper.

He leans forward, burying his face in my stomach, holding me in place with his strong arms around my back. My fingers slide through his hair, hugging his head gently as he holds me. He presses a kiss to my stomach and murmurs something I barely catch. " . . . third head . . ."

I frown, pulling him away from me so I can look into his eyes. "What do you mean, third head?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, little wolf." His hands cup my bottom, pulling me off the table and back onto his lap. I feel his length hardening between my thighs. A seductive grin, that only two weeks ago I wouldn't have believed I was capable of, spreads across my face as I wrap my fingers around him and gently guide him back inside of me.

His head leans back against the chair, eyes fluttering close. I realize now that for the first time, _I _am in control over _him—_my body now covering his rather than the other way around. His hands grip my thighs tightly as my body moves on its on accord, acting more out of instinct than anything else. I lean back slightly, grasping his knees behind me and rocking my hips, forcing him deeper inside of me.

His hands travel up my back, lifting the tunic until it is over my head and back on the floor. He pulls me closer to him, his mouth latching onto my right breast. I cry out, "Oh, gods . . . _Rhaegar_."

This encourages him, his tongue swirling around my taunt nipple, his teeth teasing the small nub. I hold his head to my chest, never ceasing my hips from rotating and rocking in an increasing rhythm.

And as we both cry out in pleasure, I cannot help but think that I want this to last as long as possible—like a dream that I didn't want to wake up from, never to end.


	10. Nine

For three months, he keeps me in the tower. As the weeks came and passed with passionate lovemaking occurring nearly everyday, I grew attached to Rhaegar—and as the weeks passed, I realized he became attached to me as well. I would go out for a walk or step outside read on the soft sand at the base of the Red Mountains, and Prince Rhaegar was never too far behind.

He had managed to find me a new gown to wear that was bought from a neighboring village. It's simple and easy to dress in, and I discovered, the night he bought it, that the reason he bought it was because it unstraps in the front and came with no undergarments, giving him even easier access to my body whenever the moment arises, which is quite often. Though, I am _not _complaining.

However, my stomach grows as the weeks pass. I wonder if it is the food, but when Rhaegar notices one night while we lay in bed, dread falls over me like a bucket of freezing cold water.

"You are with child," he breathes, holding my slightly round stomach in his hands as though he's holding a miracle.

I stare at him, wide-eyed. "How is this possible?"

Hie eyebrows rise, amused. "Shall I show you . . . again?"

I slap his wandering hands away, a hot streak of panic rushing through my veins. "No. This cannot be."

He takes my face in his hands. "Hush, love. All is as it should be. Do not worry yourself, this babe is a gift."

I stare at him, stunned to find him so accepting of this. "You want a babe, even though you have two with your wife?"

He nods.

"But . . . the babe will be a bastard," I whisper in fear, a tear falls from my eye.

"No, my little wolf." His thumb swipes across my cheek, erasing the lone tear. "I will not allow that to happen."

"You have a wife, you have _heirs_. This . . . This cannot happen!" I'm going into hysterics, I can feel my hands shaking with fear. _Father will disown me_. _I am worse than Robert Baratheon._

"Hush, little wolf," he coos, taking me against his chest. "Your child will be a true born son. I promise."

"But . . . how? You are _married already._" I remind him, repeating, "You have _heirs_."

"The Targaryens are known for taking more than one wife and producing multiple heirs," he says gently. It's as if he already had this speech planned out, prepared to be spoken aloud. "_Our child _will be recognized."

I pull away from him to stare into his eyes, horror and amazement evident on my face. "Do you mean . . . ?"

"Yes, little wolf." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, caressing my cheek with his thumb. "I will marry you."

. . .

The ceremony is held a week later, after Rhaegar calls for the services of a septon from the neighboring village, who meets us a little ways beyond the tower. After Rhaegar wraps me in his heavy, blood red cloak, the septon speaks the words, binding our souls together with a silk rope.

He steps back and gestures to us. "Look upon one another and say the words."

I turn to Rhaegar as he turns to me. Our eyes meet and he smiles as we speak as one, "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger."

A small flutter of happiness flits through my stomach as I say, "I am his and he is mine," at the same time he says, "I am hers and she is mine." Together, we continue, "From this day until the end of my days."

He pulls me into a passionate kiss. As we pull apart, I smile wide.

_This is really happening_.

That night, as we lay in bed basking in the afterglow of our lovemaking, I curl into his side, tangling our legs together. "I have thought of a name for our tower," I say as I trace patterns into his rippled stomach.

"Let's hear it, then."

I prop my chin on top of his chest, saying softly, "Tower of Joy."

He looks at me, eyes softening as he cups my cheek. "How did you come by this name?"

"You," I sigh, holding his eyes with my own, lilac against brown. "You bring me joy, Your Grace. A joy I've never known and wish to never part with."

His face brightens as a smile tugs at his lips. "You will never have to, my love."

I smile, pressing my lips to his chest, trailing up until our mouths met, starting a new fire in my stomach as he rolls me to my back, our honeymoon yet to end.


	11. Ten

_283 a.c.  
_  
The months pass and I grow larger with each day. I am self-conscious of my body, aware that it is more difficult to be held and make love to with my protruding stomach. Rhaegar notices my discomfort and compliments me constantly, showering me with affection._  
_

One afternoon, he disappears, claiming the need to visit the neighboring village for supplies. He leaves me with one of his Kingsguard, the other accompanying the Prince to the village. They are our only company besides each other. I find Ser Oswell, the one who remains with me, to be crass, but amusing at times. His stories entertain me, but he leaves a sour thought in my mind whenever I remember Mary and his unkindness toward her. He's made amends by running errands for me, bringing me food that I desperately craved for in the middle of the night.

I wander about our tower, feeling alone and craving for my husband to return. _Husband_. Even now, months after being married, I still find it difficult to believe. The Crown Prince of Westeros, _heir to the throne_, married _me,_ a Stark of Winterfell. I squeal in delight like a little girl with a new doll whenever I think of it.

However, in the same thought, I also remember his wife and two children in King's Landing and I grow weary. We will have to emerge from hiding eventually, and then what will happen? My family will disown me, surely. The people of Westeros will no sooner accept me as their queen as they would accept a long and harsh winter.

I slump into a chair at the table and pluck a book from Rhaegar's stack. There is no title, so I open it and curiously scan its contents. The more I read, the more confused I am.

_Thousands of years ago, in the old land of Valyria, a prophecy was read, detailing the coming of a prince that was promised. In the prophecy, this prince is born with the blood of the dragon. He is to be of the House Targaryen and born beneath a bleeding star. With his return, dragons will return and darkness will be conquered._

I stare at the page for a moment before turning it to read on. The rest of the book is notes, scribbles detailing one's thoughts. It doesn't take me long to realize that I'm reading the personal thoughts of my lord husband. What he writes about—details of myself, of the prophecy, of his wife and children, of our marriage thus far—the words blur together and I can no longer comprehend them.

I'm nearly on the seventh page when Rhaegar enters the tower. In his arms are a new dress and a cloth bag full of the foods I often crave. I look up at him slowly, anger boiling in my blood. His smile falls as he see what I'm holding. He drops the food and the dress carelessly and approaches me. I stand, moving away from him. He grabs the book and scans the contents of what I've already read.

_She is the one. She will introduce the third head to the world._

"How did you happen upon this?" he asks carefully.

"What is the meaning of it?" I snap. "Who is 'she' and what do you mean by a third head?"

I know the answer is me—I'm the 'she' he speaks of, but I have no sense of what the bloody third head is.

"Little wolf, calm down."

"Don't you call me that!" I scream. "You have _no right _to call me any of your precious pet names, not now. I demand to know: What do you mean by a third head?"

He stares at me, all the warmth gone from his expression. He pins me in my spot with cold, lilac eyes. "The prophecy, you read it?"

I nod. He comes around the table, closing the distance between us with every step. I don't move away as he reaches out to hold me. I smartly slap his hands away. "What does this prophecy have _anything _to do with me?"

"You will help me fulfill the prophecy."

"_How?_" I erupt. "I do not have any blood of the House Targaryen in me. I'm a Stark of Winterfell, I was not born of _incest_."

His eyes are sharp, slicing me deeper than any knife wound. "Careful,_ Lady Stark,_" he growls dangerously. "Do not disrespect your King in such a manner, nor your husband."

I bite my tongue. It was a harsh thing to say, spoken in anger. I don't relent, though. "Yes, _husband—_a title which normally includes speaking the truth to your _wife _rather than keep her in the dark in hopes she will remain ignorant." My anger flares. "I _will not _allow you to continue lying to me, _husband_. Tell me the truth—what does this prophecy have anything to do with _me?"_

"Our child," he says flatly.

I pause. "What about the babe?"

"The child you carry is the third head of the dragon—Rhaenys and Aemon are the first two."

I try to wrap my head around what he is saying, my hand instinctively covers my stomach. "How . . . _why_?"

"The dragon has three heads, there must be one more."

I stare at him. "You brought me here—you _kidnapped me_—all for some folly prophecy?" I shove him away, stepping out of his outstretched arms and moving across the room to gain a clear head. "Gods, I thought . . . How could I be so _stupid_?" I turn to face him, pointing an accusing finger. "I thought that you might actually . . . How can you possibly believe that this prophecy is even real?"

He speaks softly, the calm before the storm. "Aegon the Conquerer united the seven kingdoms with his two sisters—he is known as The Dragon. The dragon must always have three heads—Aegon himself and his two sisters. On the night of my son Aegon's birth, a bleeding star crossed the sky, one of the signs of the Prince that was promised."

He explains this to me as though I'm a child, but I clearly see the connection he is making. My child is the third head to his prophecy.

"Why me? Why couldn't your _beloved_ wife give you a third child?" I spit out bitterly.

"The pregnancy and the birth of my children—both of them—were difficult. After Aegon was born, the maester said she could not bear another child or else it might kill her. I will not doom her to that fate."

I digest this information. "But why _me_?" I all but scream. "You can have any woman, _any of them_, from any other part of the kingdom. Why choose me?"

"Because, my love," his voice softens as he steps toward me. "You are a wolf—fiercely protective, intelligent, and unwilling to bend to authority. You have power in you that you have yet to discover. You are a natural queen, born to rule. You are . . . _perfect_."

He reaches for me, grabbing me around the waist and pulling me into his chest, crushing his lips to mine. I want so badly to give it, to let him take me right here, on the table like on our first night together, but I can't. Not when I know this is just some ploy for him to fulfill some folly prophecy.

With all my strength, I push him away, my eyes watering as I turn away. My hand comes to my mouth, covering my sobs. I swallow around the lump in my throat. Anger bubbles once more inside of me, but this time, it's directed at _myself._

"I was so stupid . . . foolish to believe you brought me here because you . . ." I can't even say the words out loud. _Because I thought you love me_ catches in my throat and I cannot bring myself to choke out the words. It's too painful to think about.

I love him—with all my soul I love him. I knew I loved him from the moment our lips first touched. But this betrayal, the lies he's kept from me, it's too much. I hear his soft footsteps near me slowly. I feel his warmth at my back as he closes the space between us, but he doesn't touch me. His words are gentle, caressing me with every syllable. "I remember when I first saw you, at the Harrenhal tourney's opening night's feast. You had poured a goblet of wine over your brother's head because he was laughing at you. You smiled, brightening your eyes and pronouncing your beauty. I was in awe. I had to see more of you. I followed you to the stables after the joust. I found you with my mare, gentle and whispering kind words into her ear. You were even more beautiful when you thought no one was watching—you blossomed.

"I went on with the tourney, but watched you in the stands as each man was defeated, falling from their horse to the delighted roar of the crowd. You were _excited_, you found joy in watching a man's sport, more so than my own father. I found strength in your charisma, which helped me win the tourney. I didn't hesitate to name you my queen, above Elia. _You _are the embodiment of love and beauty, _everything _I desire and need.

"I returned home with Elia. She was silent and distant, but I took her to bed like a proper husband. She gave birth to Aegon soon after. The maester informed us of her health and I could not bear to let her suffer again. I'm fond of my wife; she is gentle and kind. She refused to allow wet nurses do what she could do on her own. However, she was too kind, too gentle . . . too weak.

"I found myself thinking of you, even during the nights I spent with Elia. I thought of you, of your beauty and your smile, constantly. I remembered the possessiveness Robert had when it came to you, and how you rebuffed him openly, reminding him that you were not his lady wife, not yet. I soon came to realize that I _needed _you, not only for completing the prophecy, but for myself.

"I sent my most trusted guards to find you and bring you to me. When I finally had you in my arms, as we rode South, I tried to tell you my intentions, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I never wanted you to believe I brought you here for the sole purpose of producing a third child. I wanted to cherish you without the taint of duty to separate us.

"As the weeks passed and we spent more time together, laying in bed, speaking of trivial things, I found myself falling in love with you. Every day, I discover a new reason to love you. Every day, I grow further away from my obsession. Here, with you, I lose all connections with my father, with my title, with my duty—it all falls away as I form a deeper attachment to you. I do not want this child only because it will fulfill a prophecy; I need this child because I love you, and I want to have a part of us to continue our legacy, to show the world that love—_our love—_is beautiful."

The tears falling down my cheeks have turned from tragically sad to bewildered happiness as he spoke. His hands finally wrap around me, pulling me back into him. Our bodies fit together perfectly, forming around each other. I lean my head into his neck, sniffling and swallowing back tears. All the months we had been together, we never said we loved one another, never spoke the words. It was all implied, assumed.

"Say it again," I whisper, looking into his eyes.

His lips hover over mine. "I truly, deeply _love you_, Lyanna Stark. You have my heart and soul in your hands. I trust you to keep them safe."

My tears continue to flow, but happiness surges through me. "I will, my love. I shall keep them safe for you." I press my lips to his in a desperately passionate kiss. When I pull away, I softly add, "And I love you, my dragon. I will love you until my last breath."


End file.
